The King in Yellow - Robert W. Chambers (affordable ebook reader TXT) 📗

he enjoyed it⁠—except when his thoughts drifted to Valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick heartbeat when, at eight o’clock that night the train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he was once more in the city of Valentine.

“Goodnight,” they said, pressing around him. “You must come with us next time!”

He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city, and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights stared like moons.

VI

It was with another quick heartbeat that he awoke next morning, for his first thought was of Valentine.

The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen’s sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul’s sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which led to the studio.

“Monsieur Elliott?” he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, “je ne sais pas.”

“And Monsieur Clifford,” began Hastings, somewhat astonished.

“Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge with fine irony, “will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in.”

Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.

“I do not think I will come in,” said Hastings.

“Pardon, monsieur,” growled the concierge, “perhaps it would be well to see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with hairbrushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something with his candle.”

Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again, and this time something struck the door from within with a crash.

“That,” said the concierge, “was a boot.” He fitted his duplicate key into the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and did not appear astonished to see Hastings.

“Good morning, do you use Pears’ soap?” he inquired with a vague wave of his hand and a vaguer smile.

Hastings’ heart sank. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “Clifford, go to bed.”

“Not while that⁠—that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an’ I have a shoe left.”

Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane, and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, “This is terrible, Clifford⁠—I⁠—never knew you did this sort of thing.”

“Well, I do,” said Clifford.

“Where is Elliott?”

“Ole chap,” returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, “Providence which feeds⁠—feeds⁠—er⁠—sparrows an’ that sort of thing watcheth over the intemperate wanderer⁠—”

“Where is Elliott?”

But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. “He’s out there⁠—somewhere about.” Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.

Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word. Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened up and rose with great precaution.

“Ole chap,” he observed, “do you want to see er⁠—er miracle? Well, here goes. I’m goin’ to begin.”

He paused, beaming at vacancy.

“Er miracle,” he repeated.

Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his balance, and said nothing.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced, “poor ole Clifford’s goin’ to bed, an’ that’s er miracle!”

And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to assist en connaisseur. But he was not. He had not yet reached the studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a tolerably true course for the Rue Vavin.

Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god.

The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers. Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite the fountain of Marie de Medici, the waterfowl cropped the herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night’s repose under the lilac leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their forelegs, exulting.

The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing